


Expiration

by LadyProto



Series: Running with Spoons [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Acceptance, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Character Study, Chronic Illness, Chronic Pain, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fate, Gen, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Illness, Medicine, One Shot, Pain, Painkillers, Physical Disability, Sickfic, accepting death, noct is a low key spoonie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-14
Updated: 2017-03-14
Packaged: 2018-10-05 06:25:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10299629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyProto/pseuds/LadyProto
Summary: You are so brave and quiet I forget you are suffering.((Requested: Noctis living with chronic pain.))





	

**Author's Note:**

> Fills this prompt 
> 
> https://ffxv-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/3016.html?thread=1895880#cmt1895880

He knows he's past his expiration date.

Noctis sits bleary-eyed and unwashed in the back seat, sipping his way slowly through a can of Ebony. He hates coffee, hates it even more when it's mass produced and served black like this. But exhaustion clings to him like a thousand leeches, and he hopes caffeine will lift the fog. He's so tired of being tired that he's willing to drink this metallic bean juice just to gain some semblance of functionality. 

He takes a sip. Yep, he still hates it. 

Mornings are hard. Days are hard. Life is hard. Noctis is twenty years old, but only on paper. In the flesh, he's an old man; gnarled bones full of pain and stiffened joints creaking under the slightest pressure. The crystal had gnawed at his skeleton from an early age, until it had eaten away a nest in his soul. They call it divinity. They call it power, but Noctis knows it as something different. He doesn't have a word for it -- he has trouble pulling coherent thoughts through the fog of pain and fatigue. Parasite is the closest thing he can think of, maybe something like a leech. It's something gone wrong in his body, something that drains him in a slow continuous bleed. It gives him power he never wanted whilst robbing his every chance of being a normal guy.

He rummages through the pockets of an old messenger bag and finds his quick-release painkillers. These are the heavy hitting kind. He tilts the one bottle he has left and counts the little white pills as they fall into his palm. There's twelve left. That's not going to last him if he keeps warping around so much. He can't get more any time soon either. He's still labeled as dead to all the powers that be, and no one is going to fill a prescription for a dead guy. Even the shadiest of hunters wouldn't be able to oblige. The pills are too strictly regulated to be acquired so easily. But he can't just stop fighting. Everything the guys do is tied to his life force somehow, whether it be potions, weapons, even charging their phones. So Noctis starts to ration out the pills instead. He shouldn't need them if he sleeps through most the pain. He could refuse them if they would be in the car for the entire day. Yes, he could manage this. He closes his eyes and counts again. 

Prompto’s music blares. The screeching vocals and synth riffs don't wake him up but they don’t drift off into the background either. He feels like it's an unspoken invitation for him to get up and sing along. He normally would. He can fake health most of the time. Expose him to Prompto's infectious zest for life and enough adrenaline and Noctis can pretend he’s not dying for a few hours. In those few moments he savors what it feels like to be a happy, healthy young adult. He’ll sing backup to boy bands from Iris’s MP3 player. He’ll stay up to three a.m. drinking energy drinks and playing multiplayer with the guys. The night’s only over when there’s pizza boxes on the floor, beer cans on the side tables, and the first peaks of sunlight over the horizon.

But his impending slow death always catches up to him in the end. A late night out causes even more fatigue the next morning. A carefree weekend ends with a crash and a binge sleep that lasts days. Balancing life with functionality was a skill he didn't have, and honestly wished he didn't have to gain. He can't count the nights he prayed to the Six to take the pain away. He'll gladly give back their power in exchange for being just a man. 

The Six never answer. So he's left nearly a zombie, a shell of a man, one that should be dead for all intents and purposes but still forced to limp along. The pain and sensitivity had become constant companions, not friends by any means, but always with him. 

Today it's worse than normal. The crystal's power surges like angry rivers and it feels like it wants to rip its way out of his body. It makes him ache, and his entire body feels tender like a bruise. Pain is a background noise, an ingrained part of a life that isn't lived, but survived, endured. It’s not an extreme stabbing pain, but it drains him all the same. He stays tense and sore, pain radiating from somewhere deep under his muscles. He has a headache now. Not from the music, but from holding his body stiff with pain that he's forgotten to fully register. His neck and shoulders are knotted and strained. His body is so inflamed that it hurts to feel his skin against the seam of his pants legs. The guys are talking about hotel rooms and the next day's plans and Noctis has to plaster some type of fake emotion on his face. Anything he attempts comes out as a grimace. 

“Looks like Prince Charmless is zoning out.” Gladio smacks Noctis’s cheek lightly. “Still tired, princess? Shoulda came out with me this morning. A morning jog would wake you up real nice.”

There's a difference between being tired and being chronically fatigued. Gladio could push himself until his bones were about to break and could recover with a good night's sleep. Noctis doesn't have that luxury. The kind of tired he has -- the kind that had been with him so long it became part of his bones -- it's not something cured with a single night's sleep. He can't even force a smile on his slack features. Noctis half-heartedly swats Gladiolus’s hand away. 

“Nah, He needs to eat something! I just saw the Crow’s nest!” Prompto excitedly bounces in his seat. It's the same diner chain they'd stopped at for every rest stop, but the repetition hasn't curbed his enthusiasm. “What do you say, Noct?”

“Uh. sure.” Noctis tries to agree but it comes out as more of a whine. If he eats he'll get sleepy again. Prompto’s choice of restaurants only serves trigger foods. Grease and processed bits of nutrient-empty food only renders his body weaker. He's so tired of being tired but he needs to eat something, otherwise those pills would start chewing a hole through his stomach. 

“Come on, it's barely six. Married life's not gonna go good for you if you fall asleep on top of the bride,” Gladio teases again.

Noctis manages a small groan and avoids eye contact. Sex. That's never going to happen, or at least not often. His misaligned hips and weakened knees would see to that. Aren't men supposed to be on top? He knows that's toxic masculinity speaking, but he’ll be damned if he doesn't feel like he’ll have a certain something to live up to. The fatigue and pain were issues enough but throw in the cocktail of medication and then he’ll have enough nausea and vomiting to rival Prompto’s. Appetite loss made him weaker too, and besides, when he feels that beaten down, he just doesn't want sex. Luna deserves so much better than an uninterested man that's always sick.

Noctis chugs the last bit of Ebony and forces a bitter pill down his throat. He's at the age where this should be vodka with his best friend in college, not narcotics and coffee just to get through the day. 

Maybe this was the Astrals’ way of saying he was past his expiration date. He should have died at the Citadel, at the right hand of his ailing father. He’d played on that throne when he was a child. He sat on his father’s knee during certain audiences. It seemed fitting he should die there too. Or maybe this consequence stemmed from something further in the past. His mother’s death was something he’d never quite gotten over. He's repressed it, internalized it into emotional distance behind layers and layers of walls. Maybe all he needs is yoga and emotional healing from some shaman in Old Lestallum. That would make sense, right? After all, he's told all the time he doesn't look sick. It has to all be in his head. 

But if he has to be honest with himself, it’s nothing even remotely connected to karma. He's a prisoner to his genetics, trapped in a cycle of chronic pain and chronic fatigue. He's the next in line for this affliction and there's no treatment or cure for the poison that nests inside his body. He's not a hero. He's not an inspiration. He's just dying a little quicker than his companions. He's only twenty but he's several years past his expiration date.

**Author's Note:**

> I'd been playing around with the idea of Noct having chronic illness like symptoms for a while but a prompt on the kinkmeme thread finally spurred me into finishing this. This is very, very personal to me. While I tried to include common reactions/thoughts from the chronic illness community on Tumblr, I ultimately gave Noctis a lot of my own symptoms. Here he displays fatigue, pain, brain fog (fibro fog anyone?), confusion, and food triggers. 
> 
> I hope this gives you some insights into chronic illness.
> 
> As always you can send comments, questions and requests at http://yourscientistfriend.tumblr.com


End file.
